


Paint Me Timid Five Times Over (Plus Once More This Time Silver)

by poptod



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Bombing, F/M, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Romantic if you squint, S 1 Ep 20, XReader, but not graphic, gender neutral reader, i mean it was that or the reader was just. not around people at all as a child, reader probably has mild autism sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 12:30:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19209481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poptod/pseuds/poptod
Summary: Father Mulcahy's life got slightly more enriched the Sunday that someone finally came to his service. Then it got more confusing, as this person seemed to be not at all religious, and then even more odd when his necklace gets stolen during a bombing.





	Paint Me Timid Five Times Over (Plus Once More This Time Silver)

**Author's Note:**

> Reader (aka You) probably, might have low level autism so I'm going to explain some weird happenings in here? So, Reader latches emotionally onto Father Mulcahy, so that's what makes Reader so... weird? around him. Also, Reader has a sort of trigger-code word to calm themselves down, and that's doll, which makes special sense at the end, which I won't say here, since it'd be a spoiler. It also explains some of the odd language, the way the Reader talks - it's not just me being a bad author! - it's just how they/you linguistically speak.

He looked out across the empty room, the pews set out neatly as always, with books that no one ever read. To his dismay, it was often like this, and it first he found himself protesting it and encouraging people to come to his sermons. After a little bit more time had passed, he found himself desperate. It was getting lonely to do so many different sermons every Sunday in the hope that someone may arrive, but either way he kept doing them. It was something to keep him busy. After more time had passed, he had found by now that it was crazy to want things in the military. Things that happened just happened, and there wasn’t an exact way to change things.

So he was very surprised when he found himself _not_ speaking to an empty room the very next Sunday after he realized this.

There was a new person there - sitting prim, with your back straight and feet placed right next to each other on the floor, an image of perfect obedience. Francis had never seen this person before, so he suspected that they might be new. His suspicions were confirmed when the person looked around, mildly confused at the empty room, as he began speaking.

Most Sundays he read the passages to himself, quiet under his breath, or simply in his head. He felt a jitter of low level excitement as he spoke the phrases aloud.

As always, as he had found himself lacking in his writing department with no one to listen to it, his own thoughts on the subject of the week were short and rather to the point. A quick reflection, mostly for himself, so as the new person listened, he felt a little embarrassed. The whole morning ended rather quickly after that.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, his voice excited and nervous at once. The person stopped themselves, not opening the door, but turning back to face him.

“People don’t come here often, do they?” You asked, in such a neutral tone that Francis was taken aback for a second. Just a second though.

“No, no… not really,” he answered quietly. “What’s your name anyway?”

“(L/N). Uh, the people here are starting to call me Monét,” you added, eyebrows raised and letting Francis get a good look at the color of your eyes. He chuckled a bit.

“Why Monét?”

You raised your left handed, covered in the white and green paint from a building Francis assumed was freshly painted at the air base.

“I see. You don’t paint by any chance, do you?” He stepped down from his little podium, walking towards you with an inquisitive look.

“I do. Back home I did. Why?”

Mulcahy shrugged, looking down with a smile.

“You look like someone who paints. I have a friend who kind of looks like you, actually,” he said, looking back up at you again.

“… Thank you,” you said slowly, looking at him with your brows furrowed in confusion. You left after that.

 

The next week, Klinger had joined you in the audience, wearing a black and white dress. Mulcahy had seen you a few times outside of his services, and to his knowledge, you hadn’t seen Klinger yet. When you did see him, dressed in a rather modest (at least for him) dress, you didn’t bat an eye. The service went on as usual, Francis’ voice more upbeat than any other time he’d attempted these Sunday mornings.

“I like your dress. Did you make it?” Francis heard you say, his back turned as he stacked his books on his podium after the service.

“I did! How’d you know?” Klinger sounded excited, and he heard the rustling of clothing.

“The seams. They’re on the outside. Fold them together then sew,” you said, voice quiet.

“Oh, thank you! The names’ Klinger.”

“Monét.”

Francis turned back around, his books in his arms and nicely stacked.

“Thank you both for coming,” he said, grunting slightly as he stepped down.

You left rather quickly, so Francis spoke with Klinger the rest of his time cleaning up.

 

The next time that Mulcahy saw you was the next day during lunch. You hadn’t gotten much to eat, and you sat alone, in a corner table. He cleared his throat, feeling his heart bit a little faster from nervousness as he made his way over to join you. In all the times that Francis had previously seen you, you’d been very closed off. Looking back, he noted that he never saw you actually speak to anyone else besides himself and Klinger.

“Hello (L/N),” he said, his voice much chirpier than he was feeling.

“Hello Father. Is there something wrong?” You looked up at him, eyes inquisitive and innocent. There hadn’t been any bodies since you’d arrived. That would account for the more innocent look in your eye, he surmised. 

“No, not at all. Thought you might like some company,” he said with a smile, situating himself. You stared at him for a moment more before looking down at your food.

The tent began to get louder as more people filed in, the most prominent conversation topic being the casually awful food, as always. Francis had always found himself trying not to complain, as usual. It wasn’t Igor’s fault that the food quality here was subpar.

“Don’t feel compelled to eat all of it,” Hawkeye, who had sat himself right next to (Y/N), who was looking rather distraught and like it’d be better to be anywhere than here.

“Actually, don’t feel compelled to eat any of it,” Trapper, now sitting next to Mulcahy, said.

“Hi Hawkeye, Trapper,” Mulcahy said in reply to their jokes, nodding at each of them respectively.

“So, you must be the new kid. The one with all the paint on the hands, right?” Hawkeye held up his hands, shaking them like jazz hands. Your eyes darted over to his hands before looking back down silently.

“Yeah, Monét. Weird name - what’s it mean?” Trapper asked, leaning forward over his food.

“Monét is a famous painter,” Mulcahy reminded them.

“Huh. Why not use the name Michelangelo then? More recognizable.”

“(L/N) doesn’t really look like a Michelangelo,” Hawkeye interrupted their conversation.

“You know what Michelangelo looks like?”

Hawkeye shut up very suddenly. Both Trapper and Francis looked at him, confused at his sudden silence.

“You alright Hawk?” Trapper asked, leaning further forward on his elbows. As he asked that, you set your hand on top of the table from its’ previous position on the bench, showing your fingers intertwined with Hawkeye’s. Mulcahy blinked, rather shocked.

“Easiest way to shut someone up is to fluster them,” you said quietly, taking a bite of food.

“Now that’s just unorthodox-“

“You want me to get worse?” You turned, your expression not a glare but a challenge for him to speak again. Hawkeye shrugged, and began eating.

“What in the,” Trapper whispered to Francis.

“I - I don’t know,” was all Francis could say.

 

 

You and Klinger continually came to his services, you sitting in the back, and Klinger sitting somewhere near the front. You left too early for him to start any conversation, so he spoke with Klinger. Other days, Klinger left too early as well.

It was your third week of being there that you got… weird.

There had been a round of OR that had occurred on the second day of the third week, and after that, you seemed more, well, more like a human. Less tight, less stuck up, more relaxed, and yet always on edge. It confounded and intrigued Mulcahy to no end. You didn’t talk to people still, unless spoken to first. Most times you cold be seen with a black flask at your hip, completely unopened and still full. He’d never seen you drink from it. Hawkeye had asked for it a few times, to which you allowed for him to take a sip.

Along with a flask at your hip, you carried a knife. A _large_ one. Probably about the size of his head, dull and heavily decorated at the handle. Most days after the second day of the third week, you were nowhere to be found. Ginger claimed she found you on the outskirts of camp, crouched over and picking at the ground. Nobody took too much stock in her claims, but Mulcahy knew there wasn’t any reason for her to lie.

The third very odd thing that Mulcahy had noticed, despite the fact that you’d been there for a while, was that you weren’t _doing_ anything. During OR sessions, you lended your help whenever possible, but you weren’t a nurse. You certainly weren’t a doctor. You weren’t an MP, nor were you a simple janitor, and you certainly weren’t replacing Radar as the camps’ clerk. He desperately wanted to confront you, to ask about these odd happenings, but it was more his style to turn his cheek and ignore his curiosity than it was to confront the mysterious.

The world kept turning despite your odd ticks, and Mulcahy found his thoughts reverting to an earlier lesson he had learned: “it’s crazy to want things in the military. What happens just happens, and there isn’t any liking or disliking it.”

The world kept turning even when, during the third day of the fourth week, Mulcahy did run into you, attempting at making conversation in the empty area. It must’ve been past midnight, the two of you standing outside the door to OR, staring upwards at the stars or down at the ground.

“How’ve you been, (L/N)?” Mulcahy started, putting his hands in his pockets and shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“… Caught up,” you answered, still looking at the stars, your hands also in your pockets. Francis nodded. He opened his mouth to speak when you looked down, grabbing something out of one of your abnormally large pockets, and jabbing him in the chest with it. He looked down, seeing a small canvas turned upside down so he couldn’t see what was on it.

“Yours. Good night,” you said, turning suddenly, not waiting for him to grab it. He tensed slightly as he watched it clatter on the ground. He kneeled, turning it over with much care.

It was a painting, obviously, but it was of him and someone he couldn’t quite identify. He seemed to be talking with the person, but their face was blurred beyond recognition. It didn’t seem to be you, though, he could tell by the skin color. When he looked at his own face though, he was surprised to see the amount of detail put into the tiny painting. He swallowed thickly. Overall, it was a beautiful little painting, and he took it back to his tent for safekeeping.

 

 

The fifth time he had been puzzled by you was your fifth time talking to him. It was the first day of the fifth week, and you were nowhere to be found. Another common occurrence, so much so that no one really payed any attention any more. Francis himself sometimes didn’t even notice your casual disappearances.

This time he wasn’t aware you were gone, and he had decided to go on a walk wherever it was safe. He got confirmation from Colonel Blake (though he didn’t put too much trust into Henry’s word) where it was safe to go, and set off in his white panama hat, hands tucked into his pockets.

He had run into you halfway through his walk, in a small little hole in the cliffside, crouched down and picking at the ground, just like Ginger had said you were.

“M-Monét?” He asked nervously, rubbing his hands together as he slowly grew closer to you. You looked up, staring at him for a moment.

“What are… what are you, uh, doing?”

You were quiet for a moment, looking like you were having a great debate about morality in your head.

“Stones. These stones are colorful. I can make paint out of them.”

You were still hunched over, your shoulders tensed very tightly. You looked ready to brace yourself for berating or rejection. Francis, noticing this quickly, decided to do the exact opposite.

“Would you like some help?”

Your eyes widened, staying silent, your hands still slightly raised above the colorful earth.

“Y-yes! Yeah,” you stammered, looking for the first time uncertain of yourself.

“I really like the painting you gave me. You’re a good artist,” Francis said as he sat down next to you. You silently offered him your dull knife, but he quickly refused.

“Hardly,” you said in response, starting to dig at the red earth again. Mulcahy wanted to say something to prove you wrong, but you looked focused, and it didn’t seem like you were going to chance your mind anytime soon. He shut up, starting to dig at the earth with his fingers. It was surprisingly nice to feel beneath his fingertips.

Eventually you started to load some of the finer earth into a small bag at your side. He helped you for a moment before you stood up, offering him a hand to help him up. He paused for just a second before taking it.

“Thank you,” he said very suddenly, blinking as he tried to understand _why_ exactly it was that he thanked you. You looked to be doing the same, staring at him with your eyes questioning and wide.

“… you’re welcome,” you said, stiff and loud. Francis cracked a smile, laughing a little bit. You smiled ever so slightly, and the both of you headed down the hill to camp.

He never did feel very awkward talking to you after that.

 

 

The next time he had seriously talked to you, not just in passing, he was inviting you to listen to the game with him in Colonel Blake’s office. You had declined, saying you weren’t too interested in the ‘trivial matters of pushing people over to get someplace sooner.’ He had tried to explain that it was a lot more complex than that, but your point was heard anyway. You stayed in the Post OP room, watching over the patients to make sure nothing terribly bad happened while the doctors were away.

He rushed into the Colonel’s office, a few black and yellow pompoms blocking his way as he said excitedly, “how about a round for the gipper?”

“Father, Notre Dame is not playing,” Henry informed him, shaking his head a bit. Francis furrowed his eyebrows, his shoulders dropping in disappointment.

“Oh… well, then what’s all the excitement about?”

Hawkeye just laughed a little, and the eight of them settled down to listen to the radio announcer. Francis fiddled with his Notre Dame flag, feeling a little foolish but nonetheless interested in the actual game.

“Uh oh,” Radar said quietly, looking up at the sky with wary eyes.

“Quiet, Radar,” Henry quickly dismissed him, intent on the game.

“Uh, sir? I think you better forget about the game,” he tapped him on the back, his eyes still trained on the sky, unmoving.

A bright light flashed through the windows, a tremendous boom screaming through the camp. The ground shook, and Francis fell to the side, his heart leaping out of his chest cavity and beating far too fast for his liking. They all looked up at the sky, mimicking Radar’s horror.

“Wow, that’s close!” Henry exclaimed, his eyes wide with fear.

“That guy can really kick a ball!” Hawkeye said, but his tone was more serious than joking.

“More on the way!” Radar suddenly said, ducking Henry beneath the desk as the rest followed suit, covering their necks with their hands in order to protect the most important bones. A few more bombs went off, and then an especially close one, knocking the chimney pipe over and onto the desk. Ash and wood splinters fell everywhere, coating all surfaces, and Mulcahy curled in further upon himself as the pipe landed with a loud crash.

The phone began ringing as a lull in such close shells came, and Henry began giving orders. Francis wasn’t fully listening, ringing ears still intent to hear if there was going to be another close one, one close enough to truly do some damage.

“Have anyone who can walk give a hand!” Mulcahy barely heard the words, but as everyone stood up, he followed. They sprinted down halls and into Post OP, surveying the mess with startling speed before starting right away. He barely noticed you, looking shaken up but helping anyways.

“Mulcahy, (L/N)! Get more mattresses!” Houlihan shouted, her hands busy with another patient. With a quick nod, the two of you were out, shoving past the doors and heading to no particular tent. You both reached the nearest one, running into a stampede of people trying to get out of the tent to help. Another explosion went off, shaking the ground worse than before. Francis felt a harsh, painful tug on his crucifix, feeling heavy pressure on the back of his neck as someone grabbed it. It snapped easily, and he fell to the ground, covering his neck automatically.

As the bombing calmed down slightly, he stood up, running into the tent with no clue as to your whereabouts. He assumed, very quickly, that you must’ve been swept up in the crowd. He could carry four mattresses if needed anyway. He did just so, hauling them back in, walking into Post OP with a smaller group of people. He watched the ground as he passed, wondering if his crucifix had fallen out of the hands of whoever had taken it.

“Excuse me,” he said, trying to grab the attention of Houlihan and Burns, who were standing together, setting a drop back up on its’ feet. “You haven’t seen my crucifix, have you? Someone yanked it off trying to break their fall.” He rubbed his neck, feeling the phantom pain of the necklace breaking against his skin.

Houlihan smiled distantly, fretting over the fallen piece of equipment.

“No Father,” she replied, still not looking at him. Francis hummed dissatisfied, but turned away.

He rushed to continue helping. Mostly making sure that nothing was in too bad of disarray, making sure medicine was still intact, making sure people were still intact. He finally saw you, taking count of the vials of medicine and making sure they weren’t going to fall anytime soon. There was a silver chain sticking out of your front pants pocket, and he knew immediately who it was that ripped his crucifix off.

“(L/N), I-“ Your head whipped around, staring at him with wide eyes for only a split second before splitting out of the room at the running pace of a guilty man. He almost stopped to run after you, but he noticed your dropped clipboard, and resumed your work. There were far more important things than a necklace and a guilty conscious. 

 

 

He saw you again in the cleaning room right before OR, rushing through, until a loud whistling was heard. It grew steadily closer, and you turned around, eyes wide and panting as you looked at him. He could barely feel his body, but he could assume he had the same reaction.

“Get down!” He yelled at you, crouching down as low as he could get himself. Later he felt slightly bad about this, but he hadn’t actually checked to see if you were down, or frozen in fear.

A loud _thump_ resounded from outside, something that made Francis’ blood stop cold. He looked up at you, crouched on the ground, _his_ necklace clutched tightly in your hands, pressings it against your forehead. You were murmuring something that sounded like, 'doll, doll, doll,' over and over again. He blinked a few times, confused, and scared.

“Wh- what just happened?”

“Unexploded bomb, unexploded bomb,” you said, repeating yourself again quieter.

“Th- we- unexploded bomb?” He whispered, feeling freezing tiny daggers dance circles on his skin. Any more vibration than strictly necessary felt like it may set off the bomb.

“Yes, unexploded bomb,” you repeated to him. He felt half out of his mind in fear. You suddenly stared at him for a good two or three seconds before bolting out of the room, leaving him confused for half a second before running after you.

 

 

The next time he spotted you, which was a while later, you were still running away from him. Holding the other end of two mattresses that you and Klinger were carrying into Post OP, he bolted after you. How you managed to still be working while running away from astounded him. Besides, all he wanted was his necklace back. He didn’t understand _why_ you were being so… difficult.

“I have a confession to make-“ he heard Radar say, his voice growing slowly louder as he made his way closer. He halted himself at the threshold, grabbing the arch.

“I - I’ll be right with you,” he stammered, tapping Radar’s shoulder and completely ignoring the girl in front of him. He sprinted back inside, trying to catch you from running too far again.

He did manage to catch you, finally, in an old storage closet that only contained some cleaning supplies. Big enough to support about five people being inside, squished together.

“(Y/N), are you feeling alright?” He asked first, wondering if this odd behavior was stemming from some sort of mental problem. You’d never taken anything from him, only given.

“It’s fine!” You said immediately, your voice too loud for the setting. He cringed slightly at the volume.

“(L/N,” he said, his voice calmer still, “may I please have my crucifix back?” He held out his hand for you to hand it to him. Your eyes darted to his hand and then to his face.

“N-no,” you said, voice shaking and yet insistent. He furrowed his brows, confused.

“May I ask why?”

“… No.”

“Can I get it back when this whole situation is over?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” he said, nodding gingerly towards you before awkwardly leaving the room. He took a deep breath as he did, feeling more confused than before, but continuing with his work.

“Father Mulcahy! There you are, we’re evacuating camp!” Ginger slapped his shoulder hurriedly, dashing out the door before he could get a word in. You emerged a second later, face red and embarrassed.

“Come now, I think we’re running away,” he said, grabbing your upper arm and pulling you along. You followed without any objections or interference. The two of you followed Ginger who was rather far ahead of you, heading up a mountain pass and into a small cave filled with the chatter of nervous people. Francis glanced at you, quickly releasing your arm.

“Wait, Ginger, where’s Hawkeye? Henry? Houlihan..?” Mulcahy grabbed the nurses’ attention, his eyes flitting around the room for any sign of them.

“Down at camp, still. Trying’ to diffuse the bomb,” she answered, before rushing off to tend to some hurt patient. You turned to Mulcahy, a nearly unreadable yet terrified expression. You darted out the entrance of the cave, watching from the vantage point as Henry distantly yelled orders from a small fort away from the bomb. Francis sat next to you, watching keenly in on the action.

Trapper and Hawkeye turned to each other, and then began running. Francis felt a weight push him back into the mountain, and he ducked underneath his hand as a loud _popping_ noise echoed through the hills.

No explosion, no shaking ground.

Slowly, the weight on his shoulder grew less tangible, and a fuzzy feeling grew in his mouth.

“It was a _dud_ ,” you said, confused and disturbed.

“A what? I thought it went off,” Mulcahy said, just as confused, staring out over the edge. Hundreds of papers were flying down to earth.

“It’s a propaganda bomb!” Francis yelled, his voice reaching those still inside the cave. All who could walk came out, eyes squinted to see through the hot sun, confusion and a good sense of caution eminent in their step. Mulcahy felt a hand curl into his, fingers intertwining in his own, and a cool metal pressed heavy against his palm. He didn’t dare look over at you, knowing you’d probably shy away, but he could feel you looking at him as he smiled.

People began shuffling down the mountain, carrying wounded and the like down, followed by supplies and food. You stood up, letting the necklace fall into Mulcahy’s hands as you began helping carry mattresses down. He slipped the crucifix into his pocket, and went back to work.

 

 

He later caught you that night, wandering around aimlessly, dull knife twirling in your right hand with relative ease.

“(L/N), there you are. Listen, I’ve got questions, and I want you to answer them,” he said, a gathered amount of confidence that took about an hour to convene. You stopped your pacing, standing stock still as you waited for him to continue.

“Listen, uh, (L/N), you seem like a lovely person,” you just looked more confused now, “but I’ve been wondering what exactly it is that you’re supposed to do here.”

“I’m a cook,” you answered simply, as always. Mulcahy paused, processing your answer.

“A… cook? Then why is Igor still cooking?”

“No one assigned me, and when I tried to go to the kitchen I was kicked out. I help where I can now,” you shrugged, sheathing your knife.

“I see… what about that flask that you always carry?” He felt awfully intrusive with all these questions, but they’d been bothering him for weeks. Manners be damned, he was human, and humans tend to be naturally curious.

“Mostly for Hawkeye. Also looks nice,” you said, twisting your hips to let him get a good view of it.

“I suppose it does look nice. But do you really carry around a flask of alcohol at all times… just for Hawkeye?”

“It’s good if anyone needs calming down, or if its’ cold. Also good for wound sterilization and an easy access to drinkable liquid if you don’t have any fresh water around. It also helps boost morale if someone is willing to share their alcohol.”

That was a much more detailed, and thought out explanation than Mulcahy was expecting, but he enjoyed it anyway. Now for the big question.

“Why did you need my crucifix?”

You froze up at that, body tightening as blood rushed to your face and neck.

“I - I needed something to ground me. You do that, but I couldn’t follow you everywhere. I hope I didn’t offend you,” you mumbled, eyes downcast and hands wringing together.

“You’re interesting, (L/N). I don’t think I’ve met another person here who even comes close to your…” he paused, trying to think of a word.

“Eccentricities?” You suggested, looking up at him shyly.

“Yes,” he laughed, nodding. He fell silent as you smiled, just slightly, taking a few steps forward so you were truly face to face with him. You cupped his cheek with your left hand, moving his face slightly to the side as you left a barely-there, dainty as all heaven kiss on his cheek.

“What was that for?” He said, laughing a little bit. Mostly nervously.

“You’re the best man I’ve met. You’re an absolute doll,” you said, truly smiling at him with a wide, happy smile. It was the first time he’d seen it, and God was it contagious.

“Um, th-thank you,” he replied shakily, grabbing the wrist of your hand cupping his cheek and slowly bringing it down to your side. He kept holding it despite feeling he shouldn’t.

“I’ll, uh, see you around, Francis,” you said after a moment of silence, your smile lessened but still there. You ceased all touch with him, and turned, and left.

 

“See you… around,” he murmured to the air.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay I know that I'm not supposed to over explain things in my story but LOOK AT THAT what I'm TRYING to imply is that Mulcahy became a safe, very safe and understanding place for Reader to be/be with! Which comes from the Reader calling Mulcahy doll, which is the Reader's code word to calm themselves down, aka SAFETY!


End file.
